Chapter 1 - The Story

My eyes lazily fluttered open at the first sign of the early morning light entering my bedroom. I had awoken on my side and rocked my bulking frame and heaved myself onto my back, a maneuver that had become increasingly difficult in recent months. I stretched my soft, pillowy arms wide and let out a magnificent yawn.

I had awoken to the vague recollection of a nice dream. The images had long disappeared into the ether but I was still left with the emotions and the feelings it had conveyed. Contentedness, pleasure, delight. I smiled and my heart grew warm. Life had been good lately and I hadn’t had the slightest care in the world.

It was nice having the time to really take in the moment. My school term had recently ended, and I was still basking in the glow of no more late-night cramming sessions and stress-inducing final examinations. With no school obligations to attend to and thankful no request for summer employment from Mom or Dad, I was free to spend my time as I wish. This summer was mine for the taking.

Sitting up in bed I was keenly aware of just how large I had grown lately. My dad’s old Cornell t-shirt I had retrofitted as a nightgown now barely sufficed as a belly shirt. The cotton shirt had ridden halfway up my stomach over the course of the night and had left my pale, flabby, gut on full display. I looked down at the heavy paunch sitting on my thick, squishy thighs. I couldn’t help but smile with pride and clutched the spongy flab. I was growing softer by the day.

As I sat admiring my own corpulence, the a delicious aroma caught my attention. The smell of crisp, greasy bacon filled my nostrils and suddenly I grew ravenous. If there was bacon then my mother was definitely awake. And if my mother was awake then breakfast was surely being prepared. My inner fat girl squealed with delight while I rocked myself back and forth off the bed trying to stand. I guess I was a fat girl on the outside too.

As I stumbled forward off the bed, I caught my reflection in the mirror, or at least, as much of my reflection fit in the mirror. As much as my gluttony wanted me to sprint towards the kitchen, my vanity ultimately won out and I couldn’t help but admire my plumpness.

My most noticeably feature was no doubt my belly. It was wide and round and sagged heavily halfway down towards my knees. My belly sagged so low that it sagged halfway down my ivory-white thighs and obscured the gym shorts that clung to my wide, cottage cheese-like lower half. I measured in at a short 5’2” which only served to make me appear bigger than my 280-pound frame. The pale paunch quivered and jiggled with every step I lumbered. Long, red stretchmarks striped the ivory white dome along with bumpy patches of cellulite. My bellybutton was deep and wide. Thick, sagging rolls flanked either side of my paunchy stomach. My boobs rested heavily atop my massive tummy.

I lumbered out my door and my made way downstairs into the kitchen. The aromas escaping the kitchen were overwhelming and I raced towards my spot at the kitchen table. My parents were at their normal stations. My dad was parked at his spot at the kitchen table, idling scrolling on his iPad reading the local news. My mom was helming the stove, carefully preparing a full breakfast for the whole family.

“I was beginning to wonder when you’d make an appearance,” my dad chuckled. “You mom and I had a bet going on when you’d be up. I guess I got to pay up, don’t I, hun?”

My mom gave a hearty laugh. “It was a sucker’s bet. I knew she’d be up the second she smelled what I’ve been cooking. Now, Georgia, on the other hand, she’s different. We’ll be lucky if she graces us with an appearance before lunch.” My younger sister, still in high school, had quite the reputation for sleeping in. The running joke in our family was that Georgia didn’t sleep; she hibernated.

“Speaking of what you’ve been cooking,” I said playfully. “How long before everything’s ready? I’ve got a whole lot of nothing on my agenda and I’m practically wasting away,” I dramatically declared. I looked over in my parents’ direction, hoping to get a rise out of them.

My dad, rolled his eyes and continued scrolling on his device. My mother turned to face me and placed a hand on her wide, soft hip, glaring daggers in my direction. “Ruth Ann,” she scolded, “the last thing you are doing on this Earth is wasting away. At the rate you’ve been growing lately, you’ll soon be outgrowing my clothes,” she scolded.

“Aww, you really think so, momma?” I sarcastically asked and patted my belly. Waves of fat rippled across my stomach. My mother shook her head. “What in the world are we going to do you?” she asked rhetorically and turned her attention back towards the task at hand.

Looking at both my parents it was easy to see where I got my figure from. Both my parents were quite overweight. My dad had, at one time, been relatively thin. But years of my mom’s cooking along with sitting behind a desk had made him soft and doughy. His weight had settled onto his tummy that only seemed to grow wider and softer as the years went by. My dad was probably sitting somewhere north of 300 pounds and showed no signs of stopping.

My mom, however, dwarfed my dad. While my dad had once upon a time been a skinny guy, my mother had never been thin a day in her life. She had grown up an overweight kid and was already quite chubby when she and my dad got together. Fast forward 20 years and the woman had grown morbidly obese. My mom was easily 400 pounds and, with the way she ate, showed no signs of slowing down. She was an incredibly round woman. She stomach was a blobby zeppelin that shook and quivered with each movement she took. The only part of her that could rival her massive paunch was her impressive chest, something she passed along to both me and Georgia.

“Foods on,” my mom announced as she turned off the stovetop. The scent was overpowering. I was salivating at the prospect of digging in and pigging out. My mom waddled over and placed the feast down before my dad and me. My eyes grew wide at the sight before me: thick, greasy slabs of bacon; a pile of gooey, fried eggs; and a tower of fluffy, buttery pancakes.

“Are we waiting for Georgia?” my father asked as he put away his tablet and started preparing his plate. My mom gave him a look as she carefully planted her behemoth rear into her seat.

“You really think there’s going to be much left after Little Miss Piggy is done?” my mom said gesturing over to me. I couldn’t help but beam with pride.

“Not a chance, dad,” I said. “If Miss Georgia Rae wanted breakfast so bad, she’d get her chubby butt up. She can always run out to grab McDonald’s if she’s too hungry.”

The three of us dug into our feast with reckless abandon. Meals were the physically straining activities that anybody in the family got these days. All of us quickly tired with the smallest amount of physical activity but mealtimes supplied us with a never-ending stamina. I drenched my stack of pancakes in a waterfall of sticky sweet maple syrup and lathered them in butter. I was an well-oiled machine. Bite after bite of pancake, egg, and bacon was automatic. As soon as my plate cleared, I instinctively filled it again, leaving no trace of empty space. My mom and dad were no differently. They ate with such gusto and ferocity that I could help but wonder whether gluttony was a heritable trait.

Soon we collectively sat back in our seats, stuffed to the brim. Not a trace of our feast was left, save for a couple of scraps of bacon fat and pancake crumbs. Me, my mom, and my dad were immobilized by our full bellies. No much was spoken except for a few stray burps that escaped each of us. I knew that I was too stuffed and bloated to form a proper sentence and I imagine that my parents felt the same.

Finally, my father let out a monstrous belch that seemed to clear his mental haze. “Excuse me,” he apologized and placed a hand on his paunchy beer belly. “That was delicious, Shelly,” he said thanking my mother. “Ruthie, why don’t we get the kitchen cleaned up and let your momma go and rest for a little bit.”

“I can help you, Daddy,” I said as I heaved myself out of my seat, my belly feeling full and taut. As I rose a monstrous belch escaped my mouth. “Excuse me,” I sheepishly said, though I couldn’t help but feel a little proud of how much of a pig I was becoming.

“Like father, like daughter,” my mother chuckled to herself as she waddled towards the living room to her designated spot on the couch. The middle sagged low after years of being broken by my mom.

Together my father and I finished cleaning the kitchen and waddled our hefty selves into the living room to join my mom. Mom was fast asleep in her spot on the couch, snoring away like a bear. The couch groaned and sagged under my mother’s heft. Dad waddled over to his Laz-B-Boy and flipped on some golf tournament, perfect post-breakfast snooze fodder. Soon he was fast asleep just like mom. I took up residence in one of other armchairs in the room and wedged my wide behind into the seat.

I could feel the sugar high begin to subside and my eyelids grew heavy. I snagged blanket from the basket next to the chair and nestled myself in. As I drifted off to sleep, I was occupied with a single haunting question: what was I going to have for lunch?

I awoke with a jolt back in my bed. My alarm was blaring and the sunlight rudely flashed through a crack in the blinds directly into my eyes. I winced and shielded myself from the blinding morning glow. I lifted myself up and was very disappointed when I looked upon my self.

It was the same, thin, toned, malnourished figure that I long grown accustomed to. I sighed, dejected. My sad, skinny reality washed over me as I lifted myself out of bed, disappointed at just how easy the task was. I trudged over to the full length mirror across the room and inspected myself.

I was just as emaciated as I had been the day before and the day before that. I was a stick compared to the wonderful, bloated, inflated woman I was in my dream. I was hardly an ounce over 115 pounds with very little curves to speak of. Flat chested, flat ass, toothpick thighs, and not a pinch of fat to be found. I pouted back at the reflection and rubbed a hand over my smooth, even belly, longing for just a centimeter of flab to squeeze.

One could dream, I guess.